It’s easy to forget that crazy is relative, like how I never think about Triss’ driving until someone new gets in the back of her car.
Last week she offered to drop Dave and Sam at the mall. When Triss spun the wheel and yanked up on the e-brake, Sam clocked me in the head as he fought to stay upright. He and Dave were screaming at Triss to pull over, and that’s when it hit me. I shouldn’t have to brace my elbow against the door, jam my knees against the dash, or spread my feet as far apart as they can go. I’ve worn a hole clear through the seat from gripping the same spot through so many car rides, and my hand was clamped around a sharp piece of metal frame like it was totally natural.
It hurt like hell, but I had enough brains not to let go until Triss stomped down on the brakes, hopped the curb, and the car lurched to a stop six inches from an old guy with a shopping cart. Hopefully he’d just stocked up on Depends.
Like I said, crazy is relative. Dave and Sam haven’t asked for a ride since, but I always ride shotgun with Triss.
Even on days like today where there’s a dead body in the trunk and Triss has slugged back so much vodka she can’t shift properly and keeps grinding the gears of her old, yellow Volvo sedan.